Stalemate
by ibuberu
Summary: Oh, how romantic irony can be. — MukuroChrome, 6996.


******prompt** – (for khrfest) Mukuro/Chrome – trapped; "I never felt as if I was locked away with you"  
**notes **– Ah, I feel so distracted now... but I hope you like this, I think it's one of my better khr fics. Be mindful of the coarse language in some small parts. Also, do take note that this will probably the last khr fic I'll post on this account, subsequent khr fics will go to my other account, 'thundercow'. Enjoy.

* * *

He is finally out of Vendicare. Her heart sings and hums like a delighted child, and she clings to his bedside, wondering (needlessly) if he is fine. Her eye greedily devours his form in the bed because, oh god, it's practically the first time she's with him in living, breathing flesh instead of an illusion she can touch but faintly feel.

His skin is much paler than what she is familiar with, his purple hair much longer now, and his eyes – they open themselves slowly so that she falls into the depths of his hell – his eyes are not the same either.

Her voice is suddenly wedged in the middle of her mouth and her stomach, struggling helplessly in her throat, battling with the intense fear that floods her veins and the intense devotion that clogs her lungs. She wants to hold his hand, but her fingers curl around the body of her trident even more, and she bides satisfaction by just sitting silently on the plastic chair and watching the way his chest rise and falls. Her heart skips when his eyes drift onto her, recognising her and allowing a kind expression onto his gaunt face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. She forgets that there are five other men in the room.

One of them steps up from the wall.

"Now that you've been freed, it's your turn to free Chrome," Tsuna says sternly, standing firm with an edge to his voice. He has changed too after these years, his shoulders matching the breadth of the crisp blazer he dons. He has been the second male apart from her master to treat her so kindly and make her believe that goodness was existent; Chrome does not know what to react in response to his sudden proposition.

The words her boss speaks, they surprise her and make her gaze leave her master for that one moment where she turns abruptly to the mafia boss positioning himself at the foot of the bed. She can spot the fear nestled in his eyes – it never completely vanishes since the day Tsuna first met Mukuro. But the fear, it is sided with an apparent determination to make her an official member of the Vongola by severing her lingering ties to a certain inappropriate source.

"Are you sure my Chrome wants to leave my side just to join yours?" Mukuro laughs in the signature way he always does, blinking the fatigue from his eyes. He props his weight on one spindly elbow and sits up on the bed. Chrome hurries to move the pillow so that it cushions his back. Mukuro smiles briefly at her and her cheeks heat in response.

Tsuna suddenly seems taken aback by his words, his mouth reducing itself to a firm frown while Mukuro primes himself in the small win with a chuckle. Chrome is caught in the silent crossfire, and her boss has to raise a quick hand to stop the others leaning against the wall from interrupting their conversation.

They are getting it wrong – she knows her master has used her, countless times, whenever he had needed and wished, and she had always compiled – but somehow, she had never considered herself to be trapped. To be locked up under his monopoly was something she felt pride (no, too haughty, too insulting), perhaps glee (too enthusiastic), maybe contented (maybe) about.

It is the same sensation she enjoys when she is flanking Tsuna, fighting alongside people she can trust – these are precious characters who accept her without any qualms; purple-haired, single-eyed, weak-hearted and all. She cannot simply choose between them, but then again, it is even more precise to say that she cannot choose her fate.

"Choose, my dear Chrome," Mukuro drawls with amusement, pinning her from the corner of his heavy eyes.

"Chrome," Tsuna's voice is candid, an intent look set on his face.

This is real entrapment.

X

**Stalemate**

X

Her nails make crescents in her palm when she wraps her hands tighter around the trident.

It does not take long, the immediate battle is won within her faster than she first predicts – maybe because the thrill of being so close to his breathing flesh, to his captivating eyes and to the sound of his voice drugs her senseless. It makes her acutely aware of her own brittle desires for once. (She probably wouldn't have noticed if someone yanked her into the breath of the sea, if only because Mukuro's gaze pierced her own unsteady eye wordlessly, expectantly.)

Her choice, she haphazardly thinks, is made because she just might love him.

She doesn't say a word – only steps to the left timidly so that her hip touches the edge of the blanket, and feels a chilling arm slide itself protectively over her hunched shoulders. There is a smile of wars claimed and goals achieved on Mukuro's thin face; a broken expression on Tsuna's, peppered with bitter acceptance and the poison of regret. His eyes don't burn anymore; the flames begin to fizzle out until he is simply a man who has just lost a dear, dear friend.

There is weakness on that man's face. A certain genre of weakness she has not seen for a long time. And then, there is triumph on her master's countenance, triumph that is habitual of him and his ways, basking luxuriously on his frame – it is the sort of triumph he associates with on a regular basis.

Chrome can't help but feel worried as she moves to slide the ring off her finger, but Tsuna stops her by holding up a rigid hand.

"Keep it," he tells her.

She does, it is the final order from her boss.

**x**

They file out of the hospital room – mostly bidding farewell with limp hands and difficult smiles (very good acting skills, on the whole). Gokudera is not as friendly, throwing her a pointed glare over his stiff shoulder. Ten years ago, she would have already been dead, reeking of dynamite ash and cigarette smoke.

Tsuna shakes her hand with a firm grip, his gloves are off and his palm is cold with sweat – but Chrome ignores this and tries her best not to show remorse on her face. Gratitude, she thinks, is more suitable and polite, though harder to pull off. He holds onto her far longer than expected, trying to keep his eyes level with hers – but he fails to reach her as the clock on the wall ticks on, and her sanity does not resurface. He eventually lets go of her hand, steps back, and displays a painful smile. It is like the price of loss he pays is so much greater than the (supposed) happiness she gains in return.

**x**

Hibari is the last one to leave the room, hands tucked in the pockets of his dark pants and eyes diverted away from the two of them nonchalantly. Mukuro observes with one hand cradling his cheek before laughing, having recovered enough energy to play his usual little game.

"You won't fight me? This is surprisingly kind of you," he grins playfully, putting the Cheshire Cat to shame.

"You are a waste of time and space in your current state," Hibari breezes as he holds the doorknob, a touch of annoyance in his voice.

He tilts his chin subtly, regarding her from the corner of his narrowed eyes, "and I have been disappointed today."

The door shuts.

**x**

She rests her head on the edge of the bed, closing her eyes to feel Mukuro's hand card through the length of her tousled hair and stroke her continuously, absently brushing her braids from her face– and she pretends that this means that they are in love.

On the plane back to Japan, she watches the clouds cover the land below – one hand involuntarily lifts itself so that her fingertips meet the surface of the window. Mukuro is sitting next to her with a pocket book, looking up from it briefly. "Miss them already?" he asks. There is a weight of mock that throws off the balance of concern and understanding acting in his voice.

Chrome's eyes are stitched to the white clouds, but she is already unable to see what kind of ground runs below.

"Just a little," she replies pensively, wondering why it has become so hard to tell truth from lie.

**x**

The Vongola are a mess without her; she hears Chikusa and Ken laughing about the news (Ken, mainly). Whether it is because she had actually been a vital part of their team, helpful and skilled; or whether it is because she had dealt a destructive emotional blow to their resolve, she tries not to worry herself over it. She tries to forget what guilt feels like on her skin – replaces it with the euphoria and fulfilment of being able to have breakfast with Mukuro every day (_good food_, Ken and Chikusa have long moved out of Kokuyo Land), being able to hold his hand and feel his palm rub the crown of her head.

But the two young men, with the intelligence of some distant acquaintance, receive news about the Vongola every other day. Ken takes pleasure in informing Chrome about how 'fucked up' the family is now. He tells her in detailed narrative about the escapades of Tsuna and his motley crew – about fights after battles, about failed agreements after negotiations, and about how the guardians have split up, leaving their forces on either side laughably weak.

She combs Mukuro's hair silently with a brush and helps him tie it up, but that is not enough to distract her.

Chrome gulps and thinks back to when the Family's politics were skating on dangerously thinning ice with a handful of rival mafias. They had been displeased about how high-and-mighty some lower subordinates of the Vongola had behaved. And Tsuna, being the peaceful and honest person he was, had made no effort to lie or deny them the truth that rainy day in Milan. She can still picture the dim alleyways flying past and hear the sound of bullets nearly scraping her ear.

The ring that remains on her finger burns against her clammy skin. She had forgotten about the situation that day at the hospital, had not realised what she was leaving behind.

(Who she left behind, and to what kind of burning train wreck.)

**x**

When she was a naive teenager, she imagined that days with Mukuro would be full of life and laughter, full of chances to see the world from a new light – from Chrome's eye, not from Nagi's.

But the days roll by stealthily without much happening. Mukuro is always perched at his creaky desk, one that smells of pen ink and stacks of papers that appear out of nowhere. He is cheerfully plotting for demises and fires and scandals that she doesn't want to burden herself with, not without Mukuro's allowance.

She spends all her time cooking the meals and cleaning the four-room apartment – when her hands are scalded or a cut lines her skin, no one comes to help her tide the pain. There is only Mukurou, who clips his black beak and nibbles affectionately at her fingers without much of an afterthought. His coat of feathers reminds her of the clouds she had left behind in Italy. The air in Japan tastes different, the clouds are far more predictable here and the lights of the cities are worlds apart from the wonderland of Italy.

Her best clothes, the ones with the Vongola crest emblazoned on the left pocket and the cuffs – they remain unaccompanied in the cupboard; she wears a dress and an apron and that she the extent of her wardrobe for six months.

One day she opens her closet to find all traces of the Vongola insignia gone.

She does not say a word, and instead tries to hide the wound that shoves itself upon her heart.

**x**

The windows are closed and the air conditioning is turned down all the way so that the air in the apartment is cooling and relaxing, combating the sweltering heat of the Japanese air outside. She is dusting the furniture and wiping it free from marks, Mukuro is sitting at the dinner table flitting through official and confidential documents that, she thinks, do not belong to him.

Chrome moves from the couch to where he is, clearing the dishes swiftly off the table surface to allow him more space to work, glancing at the man every now and again when she hopes he is too absorbed in his readings to notice. She leaves the plates in the sink for later, and returns back to wipe the crumbs off the table. She tries to focus on her hand and the cloth, getting every morsel of leftovers off the table instead of thinking about how his lips feel.

Because they must feel different from his shoulders and his hands, they are an entirely different world altogether.

When she looks up, Mukuro has put the papers away and is standing over her, with only the table barring them from one another. The temperature of the living room is rising at unexplainable levels because her blood courses hotly in her veins and her hand softens its hold on the damp cloth the more he continues to examine her. Chrome swallows, wanting to believe that he did not just read her mind, did not just detect her unsuitable emotions.

She is breathing through her mouth, lips parted just enough. Mukuro doesn't avert his stare of red and blue, his mouth closed and waiting as he leans closer across the table and onto his elbows, testing her in an excruciating way it makes her brow hot and her heart thump uncontrollably in her chest – makes her remember that this will be her virgin kiss after twenty years of living on this vile earth. Every girl's first real wish – one more inch and they will lock their lips, one more push to do something she's always dreamed of doing. His eyes are there, his face is there, this is not an illusion, not this time. Just one more centimetre. The words drill into her skull behind the sound of deafening silence that has her held captive.

One.

More.

One– and her feet finally start to move,

-she takes a step back.

Something stops her; something makes her unable to kiss him.

The heat that had accumulated transforms into something that feels like a punch in her stomach when she sees the alarmed look of disbelief on her master's face.

She scrambles to her room and locks the door after slamming it tight.

**x**

She doesn't come out for a week.

When she finally does, the rest of the apartment forces its presence onto her the moment she steps past the hallway and catches the pungent smell of dishes gathering flies and expired food and dirty laundry – it reminds her fondly of Kokuyo Land, for a split second. As if a tornado has swept through the house, individual socks are scattered across the dusty floor, books and papers lying about crumpled and open and very much neglected.

Chrome notices that Chikusa and Ken are at the table dressed in their best suits, holding cups of cold coffee in their hands and getting ready to go for work.

"Fucking bitch," Ken snarls the moment he smells her.

"Ken. Don't be so direct," the bespectacled man reminds his companion, but he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a rigid finger, almost as if demonstrating his own anger.

"Mukuro's been in a bad mood for the last few days, thanks to you." Ken turns away from her suddenly, grabbing his briefcase off the table before making his way out of the house. Chikusa slowly slides out of his chair and follows, but not before giving her a cold and pointed stare.

**x**

She flips through a notebook sized photo album on her bed.

It is almost as thick as her thumbnail, and she tries to remember how she has collected so many photos over the past years. Most were probably taken by Kyoko and Haru and presented to her as a birthday gift a couple of years ago.

Chrome hovers a fingertip over each photo, deciphering the place, time and event in her mind.

There is a photo of a Christmas party when they are teenagers, there is a photo where they manage to include Hibari into – he is a sizable dot in the extreme background, she can tell – and there is even a photo of the three of them all dressed up in cocktail dresses and make-up that makes her lips crack into a forgotten smile. There is a photo for the Vongola Family, Tsuna in the middle of the picture with Reborn on his shoulder, the rest of the guardians and close friends nestled around him and his awkwardly soft smile.

After she blinks her eyes thrice, the photos have changed and all she can see in the folios of plastic are incapacitated bodies with hollowed eye sockets and loose, hanging jaws with black hands. Blood leaks out through open joints and fierce cuts that litter their fallen frames, she can only recognise them by the clothes that sink upon them. They are sprawled out on the muddy ground with black skies hazing the photos, and she can barely smell the scent of war in the room and she immediately feels like vomiting.

In every, single, one, there is just one small difference – one more dead ally joining the sprawl of bodies, one more person she abandoned. She retreats with a shout and the album topples off the foot of her bed as she hurdles back to clutch her pillow to her chest.

She spends the entire twilight wondering why Mukuro would do such a horrible thing to her.

She doesn't pick up the album up from the floor the next morning; there is nothing else to see. The rest of the pages are naked with memories that do not exist.

**x**

Love is a risky way to describe this sensation. It makes her pulse stronger and her eye flutter in a daze; it makes her imagine things that even illusions cannot bring to artificial life – can never hope to mimic or convey. But now, because of the smallest evidence of rebellion, Mukuro never kisses her, never hugs and doesn't entertain touching her beyond her shoulder or her head. He just smiles, sitting back in his regal armchair with legs crossed and amusement lighting his face.

The news of the Vongola suffering under fire continue to bombard her every day – she thinks of Tsuna, of Kyoko and Haru and I-pin, the thought of Lambo getting hurt scaring her even as she is tucked safe under a blanket woven from the finest of silk. And this, this is the sensation she wishes is unreal.

She doesn't get any sleep. She hears their voices crying in her head.

They won't stop. And Mukuro's voice never comes to drown them out.

**x**

"Go," he says idly, eyes glued onto the book he holds in his hands.

Chrome doesn't know if she should. There are many reasons for her to fly to Italy and aid her boss – the girls are there, there are not enough numbers to fend off the attackers, they need a capable illusionist, they need her to go – yet, there is only one reason for her to stay.

"Go, just try to free yourself," Mukuro laughs loudly, tickled by the very words he crafts. "I won't stop you, I won't even care."

Chrome casts her eye downwards, biting her lip and tasting betrayal on her tongue– the same sourness that had bloomed in her mouth when she left her boss for her master.

"But... I do."

Mukuro raises an eyebrow, his crimson eye catching the sunlight that filters through the curtains of the room – while it is dusty morning here, it is sinister night time in Italy, the likeliest hour for opposing mafias to try and harm her (ex) friends. Yamamoto has already broken an arm and Ryohei is suffering from a concussion and the rest are elsewhere putting out figurative (and literal) fires. The doubt and worry toss and turn in her illusionary stomach and her oncoming tears fight with the will to steel herself.

"My dear, sweet, Chrome," he starts to say, but there is a sharpness to his words that makes him sound utterly sarcastic, like a lie he has hand-painted skilfully countless and countless of times. He means many things when he uses this name: his ownership, her vain stupidity. He tells her in a code only the two of them will ever understand – that if she leaves now, she will not be permitted to return to this house constructed entirely out of perfection. This life of safety will no longer be hers, and she will not be accepted (loved?) ever again.

"You are useless to me now, you mean nothing to me – you never have. I thought you would have figured it out for yourself," the man continues dryly, examining the texture of the book, flipping the page backwards and fingering the corner with a ringed finger. Pushing her and pushing her relentlessly with his voice – as if he wants her out of the door already.

But Chrome has long figured it out. She's known since she was sixteen. She knows her master had merely wanted to claim her so that he could inflict immeasurable damage onto her boss; rip her away and create an open sore at the most vulnerable of times (and he had succeeded, oh, how he had succeeded).

She'd been a horrid subordinate to Tsuna and an incompetent devotee to Mukuro – too caught in between the extremes to actually fulfil her role in either man's eyes. She has to make a choice now. Her hand clasps her forehead, but she doesn't say anything, her thoughts swirling into incoherency.

It had been alright for her to pretend that the truth of Mukuro's intentions did not exist – so impossibly easy and convenient for her to play the part of the clueless girl. But hearing them slither from Mukuro's mouth now, curling around her ears and taunting her – she cannot ignore the stab of pain that goes right through her chest, cannot pretend that this is not happening.

Then, she runs. Runs and runs until she feels her stomach sinking; like a love-struck teenager fleeing from a breakup or (even worse) a confession. This already the third chance she has at life, she can't afford to make any more mistakes.

So she never turns back.

(Never sees the frown unfurl on Mukuro's face; never sees the book plummet to the ground when his hand lifts itself to cover his eyes.)

**x**

**end**

**x**

When she arrives to meet head on with bloody halls and crooked paintings and dishevelled men; her eyes are already wet with tears. The sight of the tattered mansion is brutal, and she feels guilt and depression mount her scrawny shoulders effortlessly. Her boots squelch into the wet mud of the reddish-brown ground, the hem of her black dress brushing open hands and empty guns.

Through her blurred vision, she searches desperately for her boss and her (real) family. She tries to keep the tears from obscuring her sight. She tries to remember good times like making warm dinner with three pairs of hands and taking care of babies and watching boys be boys – hearing someone comfort her every night.

Her legs break out into a clumsy dash when she finds Tsuna sitting alone on the remnants of a staircase, clutching the weight of the world (and his head) in his bare hands. There are many bodies scattered chaotically at his feet, and she avoids looking at them; not wanting to recognise anyone.

She collapses at his side and braces her head against his knees, much to his relief and shock. She avoids looking at his face too – she can only deal with so much at once. She is finally home – as dark, precarious and upsetting the atmosphere is – and her heart feels relinquished for the first time in two hundred days.

She cries until his torn sleeve is drenched; cries until she is dry of pain and regret.

(Until her veins have been emptied of illusionary love.)


End file.
